by Ted Dekker
“No.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you.”
“I guess it’s been a day to yell,” she said.
“I guess.”
They lay quietly. Her hand lay in the sand, and he reached over and touched it. She took his thumb.
“I want you to make me a promise,” she said.
“Okay, anything you want.”
“I want you to promise not to dream about Monique ever again.”
“Please—”
“I don’t care what she is or isn’t,” Rachelle said. “Just promise me.”
“Okay.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
“Forget the histories; they don’t mean a thing anymore anyway. Everything’s changed.”
“You’re right. Forget dreams about Bangkok. They seem silly now.”
“They are silly,” she said, then she rolled over and pushed herself to one elbow. The moonlight played on her eyes. A beautiful gray.
She leaned over and gently kissed him on the lips. “Dream of me,” she said. She settled on her side and curled up to sleep.
I will, Thomas thought. I will dream only about Rachelle. Thomas closed his eyes feeling more content than he’d felt since trudging into this terrible desert. He fell asleep and he dreamed.
He dreamed about Bangkok.
35
THE CONFERENCE room boasted a finely finished cherrywood table large enough to seat the fourteen people in attendance with room to spare. A lavish display of tropical fruits, European cheeses, cold roast beef, and several kinds of bread had been set as a centerpiece. They sat in wine-colored leather chairs, looking important and undoubtedly feeling the same.
Thomas, on the other hand, neither looked nor felt much more than what he actually was: a twenty-five-year-old wannabe novelist who’d been swallowed by his dreams.
Still, he had their attention. And in contrast to the events in his dreams, he felt quite good. Fourteen sets of eyes were fixed on him seated at the head of the table. For these next few minutes, he was as good as omniscient to them. And then they might decide to lock him up. The Thai authorities had gone out of their way to make it clear that regardless of the circumstances, he, Thomas Hunter, had committed a federal offense by kidnapping Monique de Raison. What they should do about it was unclear, but they couldn’t just ignore it.
He looked at Kara on his immediate right and returned her quick smile.
He winked but didn’t feel nearly as confident as he tried to look. If there were any skills he needed now, they were diplomatic ones. Kara had suggested he try to find a way to cultivate those in the green forest, as he had his fighting skills. Clearly, that was no longer an option.
Lately, the reality of the desert seemed more real to him than this world here. What would happen if he died of heat exhaustion in the desert night? Would he slump over here, dead?
Deputy Secretary Merton Gains sat to Thomas’s left. Very few back in Washington knew that he’d left earlier in the day for this most unusual meeting. Then again, very few were aware the news that had punctuated the wires over the last forty-eight hours had anything to do with more than a crazed American who’d kidnapped Raison Pharmaceutical’s chief virologist on the eve of the Raison Vaccine’s long-awaited debut. Most assumed Thomas Hunter was either cause-driven or money-driven. The question being asked on most news channels was, Who put him up to it?
Gains’s square jaw was in need of a shave. A young face betrayed by gray hair. Opposite him sat Phil Grant, the taller of the two dignitaries from the States. Long chin, long nose with glasses riding the end. The other American was Theresa Sumner from the CDC, a straightforward woman who’d already apologized for his treatment in Atlanta. Beside her, a Brit from Interpol, Tony Gibbons.
On the right, a delegate from the Australian intelligence service, two high-ranking Thai officials, and their assistants. On the left, Louis Dutêtre, a pompous, thin-faced man with sagging black eyebrows from French intelligence whom Phil Grant seemed to know quite well. Beside him, a delegate from Spain, and then Jacques de Raison and two of his scientists.
All here, all for him. He’d gone from being thrown out of the CDC in Atlanta to hosting a summit of world leaders in Bangkok within the span of just over a week.
Gains had explained his reason for calling the meeting and expressed his confidence in Thomas’s information. Thomas had laid out his case as succinctly and clearly as he could without blowing them away with details from his dreams. Jacques de Raison had shown the simulation and presented his evidence on the Raison Strain. A string of questions and comments had eaten away nearly an hour.
“You’re saying that Valborg Svensson, whom some of us know quite well by the way, is not a world-renowned pharmaceutical magnate after all, but a villain?” the Frenchman asked. “Some man hidden deep in the mountains of Switzerland, wringing his hands in anticipation of destroying the world with the invincible virus?”
A gentle chuckle supported several smiles on either side of the table.
“Thank you for the color, Louis,” the CIA director said. “But I don’t think the deputy secretary and I would have made the trip if we thought it was quite that simple. True, we can’t verify any of Mr. Hunter’s assertions about Svensson, but we do have a rather unusual string of events to consider here. Not the least of which is the fact that the Raison Strain appears to be real, as we’ve all seen with our own eyes tonight.”
“Not exactly,” the CDC representative said. Theresa. “We have some tests that reportedly show mutations, granted. But we don’t have true behavioral data on the virus. Only simulations. We don’t know exactly how it affects humans in human environments. For all we know, the virus can’t survive in a complex, live, human host. No offense, but simulations like this are only, what, 70 percent?”
“Theoretically, 75,” Peter said. “But I’d put it higher.”
“Of course you would. It’s your simulation. In reality you’ve injected mice?”
“Mice and chimps.”
“Mice and chimps. The virus seems comfortable in these hosts, but we don’t have any symptoms yet. Am I right? They’ve survived a couple of days and have grown, but we have a long way to go to know their true effect.”
“True,” the Raison employee said. “But—”
“Excuse me, could you restate your name?” Gains said.
“Striet, Peter Striet. Everything we see about this virus gives us the chills. True, the testing is only a day old, but we’ve seen enough viruses to make some pretty educated guesses, with or without the simulations.”
“We need to know how long it will live in a human host,” Theresa said.
“Are you volunteering?”
More chuckles.
She didn’t think it was funny. “No, I’m recommending caution. The initial outbreak of MILTS infected only five thousand and killed roughly one thousand. Not exactly an epidemic of staggering proportions. But the fear it spread dealt a massive economic blow to Asia. An estimated five million people in the tourism industry alone lost their jobs. Do you have any idea what kind of panic would ensue if word about a planet-killing virus hit the Drudge Report? Life as we know it would stop. Wall Street would close. No one would risk going to work. Don’t tell me: You’ve bought a boatload of duct tape stock?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Six billion people would tape themselves into their homes with duct tape. You’d get rich. Meanwhile, millions of elderly and disadvantaged would die from neglect at home.”
“Overstated, perhaps, but I think she makes an excellent point,” the Frenchman said. Several others threw in their agreement. “I agreed to come precisely because I understand the explosive nature of what is being so loosely suggested.”
That would be him doing the loose suggesting, Thomas realized. Kara’s jaw flexed. For a moment he thought she was going to tell the Frenchman something. Not this time. This was different, wasn’t it? The real
deal. Not exactly a college debate.
The Frenchman pressed his point. “This could easily be nothing more than Chicken Little crying that the sky is falling. There is the issue of irresponsibility to be considered.”
“I resent that remark,” Gains said. “On more than one occasion, Thomas has proved me wrong. His predictions have been nothing short of astounding. To take his statements lightly could prove to be a terrible mistake.”
“And so could taking his statements seriously,” Theresa said. “Let’s say there is a virus. Fine. When that virus presents itself, we deal with it. Not when it becomes a widespread problem, mind you, but when it first rears its ugly little head. When we have even a single case. But let’s not suggest it’s a problem until we have absolute certainty that it is. Like I said, fear and panic could be much larger problems than any virus.”
“Agreed,” the Spanish delegate said. “It is only prudent.” The man’s collar was too tight, and half his neck folded over his shirt. “Until we have a solution, there is no benefit in terrifying the world with the problem. Especially if there is even the slightest chance that there may not be a problem.”
“Precisely,” the Frenchman said. “We have a virus. We’re working on a way to deal with that virus. We have no real indication that the virus will be used maliciously. I don’t see the need for panic.”
“He has my daughter,” Raison said. “Or does that no longer concern you?”
“I can assure you that we’ll do everything we can to find your daughter,” Gains said. He glared at Louis Dutêtre. “We’ve had a team on the ground at Svensson’s laboratories for several hours.”
“We should get a report at any time,” Phil Grant said. “Our deepest sympathies, Mr. Raison. We’ll find her.”
“Yes, of course,” Dutêtre said. “But as of yet, we don’t know that Svensson had anything to do with this understandably tragic kidnapping. We have hearsay from Mr. Hunter. Furthermore, even if Svensson is somehow connected to her disappearance, we have no reason to believe the kidnapping in any way predicts a malicious use of a virus—a virus we haven’t proved to be lethal, I might add. You’re making a leap of faith, gentlemen. Something I’m not prepared to do.”
“The fact of the matter is, we have a virus, deadly or not,” Gains said. “The fact of the matter is, Thomas told me there would be a virus before any physical evidence surfaced. That was enough to get me on a plane. Granted, this isn’t something we want to leak, but neither can we ignore it. I’m not suggesting we start barring the doors, but I am suggesting we give contingencies some thought.”
“Of course!” Dutêtre continued. “But I might suggest that your boy is the real problem here. Not some virus. It occurs to me that Raison Pharmaceutical is now in the toilet, regardless of how this plays out. I wonder what Thomas Hunter is being paid to kidnap and fabricate all of these tales.”
Heavy silence descended on the room as if someone had dropped a thousand pounds of smothering flour on everyone. Gains looked stunned. Phil Grant just stared at the smiling Frenchman.
“Thomas Hunter is here at my request,” Gains said. “We did not invite—”
“No,” Thomas said. He held his hand out to Gains. “It’s okay, Mr. Secretary. Let me address his concern.”
Thomas pushed his chair back and stood. He put a finger on his chin and paced to the right, then back to the left. The air seemed to have been sucked out of the room. He had something to say, of course. Something pointed and intelligent.
But suddenly it occurred to him that what he thought was intelligent might very well sound like nonsense to the Frenchman. And yet, in his silence, stalking in front of them at this very moment, he had complete if momentary power. The realization extended his silence at least another five seconds.
He could trade power too.
“How long have you been working in the intelligence community, Mr. Dutêtre?” Thomas asked. He shoved a hand into his pocket. His khaki cargo pants weren’t exactly the going dress in this room, but he shoved the thought from his mind.
“Fifteen years,” Dutêtre said.
“Good. Fifteen years, and you get invited to a gig like this. Do you know how long I’ve been at this game, Mr. Dutêtre?”
“Never, from what I can gather.”
“Close. Your intelligence is off. Just over one week, Mr. Dutêtre. And yet I was also invited to this gig. You have to ask yourself how I managed to get the deputy secretary of state and the director of the CIA to cross the ocean to meet with me. What is it that I said? What do I really know? Why are these men and women gathered here in Bangkok at my request?”
Now the room was more than silent. It felt vacant.
“In a word, Mr. Dutêtre, it is extraordinary,” Thomas said. He put the tips of his fingers on the table and leaned forward. “Something very extraordinary has occurred to compel this meeting. And now you’re sounding very plain and boring to me. So I’ve decided to do something that I’ve done a number of times already. Something extraordinary. Would you like that, Mr. Dutêtre?”
The Frenchman glanced at Phil Grant. “What is this, a pony show?”
“Would you like to see me float into the air? Maybe if I did that you’d be convinced?”
Someone made a sound that sounded like a half chuckle.
“Okay, I will float for you. Not like you might expect, hovering in midair, but what I’m going to do will be no less extraordinary. Just because you don’t understand it doesn’t change that fact. Are you ready?”
No comment.
“Let me set this up. The fact is, I knew who would win the Kentucky Derby, I knew that the Raison Vaccine would mutate, and I knew exactly under what circumstances it would mutate. Mr. Raison, what’s the probability that you, much less I, could do that?”
“Impossible,” the man said.
“Theresa, you must have a good working knowledge of these matters. What would you say the probability would be?”
She just stared at him.
“Exactly. There are no probabilities, because it’s impossible. So for all practical purposes, I already have floated for you. Now I’m saying I can float again, and you have the audacity to call me a fraud.”
The Frenchman was smiling, but it wasn’t a pleasant smile. “So you remember exactly how the virus mutates, and you think you may have given some information about the antivirus to this Carlos character, but you forget how to formulate it yourself?”
“Yes. Unfortunately.”
“How convenient.”
“Listen to me carefully,” Thomas said. “Here comes my floating trick. The Raison Strain is a highly contagious and extremely lethal airborne virus that will infect most of the world’s population within the next three weeks unless we find a way to stop it. Delaying one day could make the difference between life and death for millions. We will learn of its release within seven days, when the community of nations, perhaps through the United Nations, receives notice to hand over sovereignty and all nuclear weapons in exchange for an antivirus. This is the course history is now on.”
Louis Dutêtre leaned back in his chair and tapped a pencil on his knuckles. “And what you would like to do is bring on World War III before it’s here. Monsters aren’t conquered by heroes on white horses in this world, Mr. Hunter. Your virus may kill us all, but believing in your virus will kill us all.”
“Then either way, we’re all dead,” Thomas said. “You can accept that?”
Gains lifted a hand to stall the exchange. “I think you see his point, Thomas. There are complications. It may not be black and white. We can’t run around yelling virus. Frankly, we don’t have a virus yet, at least not one that we know will be used or even could be used. What do you propose?”
Thomas pulled his chair out and sat. “I propose we take Svensson out before he can release the virus.”
“That’s impossible,” the CIA director said. “He has rights. We’re moving, but we can’t just drop a bomb on his head. Doesn’t work that way
.”
“Assuming you’re right about Svensson,” Gains said, “he would need a vaccine or an antivirus to trade, right? So that gives us some time.”
“Nothing says he has to wait until he has the antivirus before releasing the virus. As long as he’s confident he can produce an antivirus within a couple of weeks, he could release the virus and call our bluff, claiming to have the antivirus. Right now the race is to stop Svensson before he can do any damage. Once he does his damage, our only hope will ride with an antivirus and a vaccine.”
“And how long would that take?” Gains asked, turning to Raison.
“Without Monique? Months. With her?” He shrugged. “Maybe sooner. Weeks.” He didn’t mention the possible reversal of her genetic signature, as Peter had explained to Thomas yesterday.
“Which is another reason why we have to go after Svensson and determine if he has Monique,” Thomas said. “The world just may depend on Monique in the coming weeks.”
“And what suggestion do you have short of taking out Svensson?” Gains asked Thomas.
“At this point? None. We should have taken out Svensson twenty-four hours ago. If we had, this would all be over now. But then what do I know? I’m just a wannabe novelist in cargo pants.”
“That’s right, Mr. Hunter, you are,” the Frenchman said. “Keep that in mind. You’re firing live bullets. I won’t have you galloping around the world shooting your six-guns. I for one would like to pour a little water down your barrels.”
Grant’s phone chirped, and he turned to answer it quietly.
“I would like to consider some contingency planning in the event we do end up with a problem,” Gains said. “What are your thoughts on containment, Mr. Raison?”
“It depends on how a virus would break out. But if Svensson is behind any of this, he will know how to eliminate any containment possibilities. That’s the primary difference between natural occurrences of a virus and forced occurrences as in bioweapons. He could get the virus into a hundred major cities within a week.”
“Yes, but if—”
“Excuse me, Merton.” Grant snapped his cell shut. “This may all be moot. Our people have just finished a sweep of Svensson’s facilities in the Swiss Alps. They found nothing.”
